The Needle and the Flame

The Seamwright did not descend from the ridge.

He unfolded.

His form rippled as if sewn from the night sky itself, each movement a re-stitching of reality. Every step he took erased a footprint behind him. He walked with the weight of countless revisions—of futures lost, pasts unwritten, and names clipped from the world like wilted petals.

Rien stood at the front of the circle, the Rebel Thread woven around her shoulders like a living mantle. It shimmered now with defiance, pulsing gently in rhythm with her breath.

"You're not welcome here," she said.

The Seamwright stopped just beyond the outermost ward, his gaze slipping past Kaelen and Soran, past Maerai and Vel, focusing on Rien with a quiet hunger.

"You carry the old fire," he said softly, as if admiring an antique blade. "But you still don't know whose flame it was to begin with."

"I don't need to," she replied. "I only need to burn through you."

The Seamwright chuckled. "Ah. Like your mother did?"

The camp went still.

Even the wind froze.

Rien's voice was steel. "What did you say?"

The Seamwright's smile was pitying. "She tried the same thing, you know. Standing there, righteous and aflame, daring the Loom to break. But the truth? She burned brightest just before she was rewritten. She didn't die, Rien. She forgot herself. And then she forgot you."

Rien's breath hitched. Just once.

"Liar," Vel growled, stepping forward.

The Seamwright barely acknowledged him. "What I am is an editor of mistakes. Your rebellion is a misprint. Your defiance—a footnote."

He raised one hand. Threads of glowing ink spilled into the air, weaving a pattern that shimmered with unnatural symmetry. A name began to take shape—

"Stop," Maerai hissed. "He's writing her anew."

Rien stepped forward into the spell.

The others shouted—Kaelen reached out—but she moved through the light like flame through paper. Threads of ink curled around her, whispering falsehoods into her ears:

Your name was never Rien.

You were born of silence.

Your fire was stolen.

But her flame did not flicker.

"My mother may have forgotten," Rien said, voice rising, "but I remember enough for both of us."

She reached deep into her Thread, and something responded—not just power, but memory. A scent. A voice. A lullaby of old embers.

And from within her own name, she rewove the truth.

A brilliant light exploded outward.

The Seamwright's spell unraveled mid-air, ink bleeding backward, letters turning to ash.

Threadbreaker

The Seamwright stumbled back. For the first time, he looked shaken.

Rien stepped out of the blazing aftermath, her hair lifted by an unseen wind, eyes lit with fire not of the Spire, not of the Rebellion—but something older.

"You don't get to decide my story," she said.

"Then who does?" the Seamwright snapped, recovering fast. "The people? The rebels? You?"

"The truth," Rien answered.

And she threw her blade.

It passed through the last remnants of his illusion—and struck true. Not his body. But the woven scrolls draped over his back, the ones etched with names and rewritten memories.

The blade ignited.

The scrolls screamed.

The Seamwright vanished in a howl of torn pages and burning ink, retreating into the shadows between threads.

Not dead.

But wounded.

A Flame Rekindled

The silence afterward was sharp.

Rien sank to one knee, not from pain—but from the weight of memory returning.

Kaelen was the first to reach her.

"He spoke your mother's name."

"He did," she whispered. "And I think… I think he told the truth."

Maerai stood beside them, eyes hard. "Which part?"

Rien looked up at the stars, distant and flickering.

"That she's not dead. Just… rewritten. Somewhere out there, living a lie. Not knowing me. Not knowing who she is."

Vel sheathed his blade. "Then we find her."

"Yes," Rien said softly, her voice now steady. "We find her. And we remind her."

The fire burned bright that night—not from fear, not from sorrow.

But from resolve.

The Seamwright had shown his hand.

Now it was time for Rien to play hers.